The Leaning Tower of Idiot & Other Stories

It’s my turn to do the overnight shift and, thanks to our work rota (designed, I suspect, by the same people who came up with waterboarding), the ‘Sleep dep’ side effects are extreme.

The fortnight living nocturnally for seven days out of fourteen, on a random on/off pattern, can feel like being drunk at times, with strange emotional lurches, as well as the physical effects of fatigue, sometimes so bad they take you to the point of nausea. There is definitely a ‘night shift’ state of mind and I often find myself in the small hours, between directing live news broadcasts, reflecting on where or who I am now and how on earth I got here.

Sometimes it’s events in the news that send my mind drifting through the years. I’ve been lucky enough to visit a few of the places that pop up in the stories on the screens in front of me. Last week it was Vukovar in Croatia. A story on the 30th anniversary of its fall took me back 11 years to an unforgettable filming trip for the BBC to that battle scarred town.

And just last weekend, it was stories on the BBC News & Western Mail websites, about a family’s awful experience at a Welsh international rugby match in Cardiff, during which a drunken fan vomited over a young boy, that brought it all back - if you’ll pardon the much worked on but still not perfect pun.

A packed Millennium Stadium in Cardiff (I’ve not got the hang of calling it the Principality) is a sight and sound to behold, and the recent autumn rugby international series was joyous for me even at this distance. So the match reports during our ‘sports belt’ also got the juices flowing, prompting my mind, rather than my stomach, to start churning up the past.

Dig deep and there they are. Memories both personal and professional, some bile bitter and others sugar sweet.

I have to dig deep because I’m so old. Old enough in fact to have a few work credits as a director at the Millennium Stadium’s predecessor, the National Stadium. 1995 may be ancient history but I can however, still dredge up the heady mix of nerves and adrenalin I felt on the long walk under the stands of the old ground on Five Nations match day, heading for the small town of scanners and OB trucks spewing cables and electronic light into the damp, dark concrete cavern. A subterranean setting that amplified and yet also muffled, the war like boom of the crowds sitting just above our heads.

Spin on a few years but still a long way down and it’s the first day of the year 2000 at the barely finished Millennium Stadium. I had the job of ‘back up director’ on a BBC Songs of Praise Millennium special ‘Grade 1’ live broadcast. Grade 1 broadcasts usually involve members of the royal family and are thus deemed so important that the key players need a back up.

And so my only task that very special New Year’s Day was to learn the camera script and ‘be there’ just in case anything happened to the real director. It didn’t and I received the easiest ‘triple time’ payment of my entire career….so far.

Cliff Richard was the star turn that day, and, as I recall, did little more for his money than me, opting at the last minute to mime the Millennium Prayer because his throat was sore. In fairness to the ‘Peter Pan of Pop’, he did wave his arms about more than me, and led a stadium full of Christians in thanks to the Almighty, whereas I merely sank to my knees showing silent gratitude that the director wasn’t assassinated.

Three months earlier I had been one of the presentation directors for ITV’s coverage of the 1999 Rugby World Cup at the ‘most definitely not yet finished’ Millennium Stadium, which meant living virtually full time there while working on the late night highlights programme fronted by Nicky Campbell. The studio’s temporary control room was located down in the labyrinthine depths where, I swear, the concrete was still wet.

I wasn’t working on the day of the tournament’s opening ceremony but made full use of my ‘access all areas’ pass and went along to witness history at first hand. During the build up I was called on to help Francois Pienaar carry the William Webb Ellis Cup (in its silver flight case) from the TV studio high in the stands, through the crowds making their way from the bars to their seats, to where it was needed - pitch side - as the centrepiece of the celebrations. No security en route but then again, the most famous rugby captain of our time was all the security we needed I suppose.

I watched the opening match of that tournament sandwiched between Francois and All Black legend Sean Fitzpatrick; men not unfamiliar with historic sporting occasions and, I imagine, very hard to impress. But the noise generated by the crowd when the Welsh team arrived on the pitch, amplified by the new stadium’s acoustics, made both these giants sit up and ‘bristle’ (I think that was the word Sean used. He’s a kiwi so it’s sometimes hard to tell). It was a special moment for all of us lucky enough to be there and, for the first time, showed why generations of sports fans in the years since, have described the Millennium Stadium as one of the best in the world for atmosphere. The ‘bristling’ it induced also meant I had even less room to watch the match, sandwiched between four of the biggest thighs I’ve had the honour to lose out to in a man-spreading war.

My profession has granted me many privileges like this, allowed me to travel the world, meet extraordinary people and witness great events. The moments I’ve attempted to recall so far are very important to me but recede into nothingness when I begin to think of the very special times I’ve spent at the Millennium stadium watching rugby (and football) with my two sons.

I grew up in Newport in an era when, even if you could afford it, getting a ticket for the rugby was nigh on impossible, unless you were on a committee or knew someone on a committee. Thanks to the massive increase in capacity, the new national stadium of Wales means that, so long as you’ve got the cash, you can usually get a ticket. I vowed that, as soon as he was old enough, Samuel Owen Finighan, proud welsh boy (in spite of being born in the shadow of Wormwood Scrubs prison in London), would be going to the rugby with his dad.

It was about 13 years ago and an evening game. I’ve just had to message Sam to ask who was playing because I can’t remember. I do recall he was very excited on the drive down from our new home in Herefordshire and I remember him gripping my hand as, for the first time, he took in the noise and scale of the crowds walking through the city centre towards the ground.

It all started to unravel once we were inside. Our seats were pitch level but towards the back, under the tier above us rather than out in the open (as they are closer to the pitch). Sitting in these back seats means that high balls are lost from view and, more importantly, the world renowned acoustics are completely altered.

The uplifting sound of seventy thousand rugby fans cheering, singing, booing in unison, is drowned out by the localised noise of individual shouts; guttural, offensive, drunken, occasionally witty but always alarming. It is more like sitting below ground in a concrete car park along with 70 others, a handful of whom were prone to Tourrette’s like sudden bursts of shouting expletive laden, welsh accented drivel. Above our heads, the constant, distant noise of people having a better time of it.

As the first half got underway, it became apparent that the young man sitting next to Sam was completely inebriated and his singing and shouting, frightening in itself, was accompanied by a violent swaying that pushed Sam further and further onto his dad’s lap. He was terrified. Before I could move him out of harm’s way, beer was spilled all over him. Not as bad as vomit I grant you but the effect on my six year old was the same.

It was the worst start welsh rugby had to offer to my young son, but, before it all became too much for him and we left, I also experienced the best.

The grown ups around us could see what was going on and a sort of ‘committee of action’ was formed. Strangers of all ages and backgrounds offered to swap seats with us to get Sam away from the swaying, beer spilling, foul mouthed idiot. I didn’t have to ask or even co-ordinate this effort - they decided amongst themselves which seats would be best and who would be strong enough to push back against the drunk. The operation would involve more than two people moving (the couple with the best seats into the seats of the people best suited to standing up to the Leaning Tower of Stupid) so we all agreed to wait until half time before making the three way switch.

Unfortunately Sam was already scarred for life and determined to get out of there as fast as possible. So at half time we headed away from the ground to the safety of the Macdonald’s on Queen Street, and the company of a better behaved class of drunk in the form of the city’s homeless, in Macdonald’s en masse, sheltering from the cold.

This kindness of strangers amidst the mayhem reminded me of an incident many years before when my father got tickets for Newport County’s League Cup match against the mighty West Ham United at the long since demolished Somerton Park. Unfortunately dad had managed to get his hands on tickets for the Cromwell Road end terrace - where all the West Ham fans were.

It had been a rowdy experience from the off and I remember fairly early on a kindly policeman suggesting dad plonk me on the pitch side of the advertising hoardings (on the old speedway track) just to be safe. As the match played out its final few minutes, and it became apparent that tiny Newport County were going to pull off a giant killing act, the travelling fans began to show their displeasure.

Full time was still a way off but bottles were already flying over our heads toward the pitch and the pushing and shoving behind dad resembled a mosh pit. I stood up, mildly distressed, on one side of the hoardings with dad still on the other wondering what to do. At that moment a West Ham fan seemed to extricate himself from the violent melee behind us for just long enough to advise dad in no uncertain terms to ‘…get that lad out of here while you still $@&! can!’.

I can still hear his London accent saying ‘farkin’’.

With the help of what seemed to me to be the only policeman on duty, dad clambered over the hoardings himself and we plodded around the speedway track towards the main stand for the long walk back to the car. At least we’d beat the traffic.

The violence that continues to occasionally blight football has never been a feature of the rugby watching experience but it’s apparent from what happened to me and my eldest son, and from recent stories of vomit and drunken pitch invasions, that rugby has other problems.

I’m not sure what can be done about it. As someone who very much likes to mix sport and alcohol, I’m dead set against banning the booze at the Millennium/Principality. Zoned areas for families perhaps? I have my doubts about those too. Rugby is rightly proud of its classless, ageless following that brings people of all backgrounds together. We don’t even separate rival fans. It would be a shame to start breaking apart this unique feature of the game.

Just last week I took my youngest son Tom to Qatar’s inaugural Formula One Grand Prix. It was spectacular in many ways and I’d find it hard to do justice in words to the thrill generated in me by the roaring whine of the cars just doing a warm up lap. It was a well organised event full of sights and sounds I’d never experienced before, with a big enthusiastic crowd. And yet it was something very different from the rugby or football games I’ve been at.

For me there was something lacking. Physically satisfying but spiritually less so.

This being Qatar it was a dry event. Having never been to an F1 race anywhere else in the world, I have no idea whether or not alcohol would have helped create a different atmosphere. I suspect it wouldn’t and I don’t think people go to the F1 to bond with fellow spectators, sing all the old songs and get some sort of spiritual uplift.

But in rugby they do. Driving back to central Doha after the race, Tom told me how much he was looking forward to the time when we would be back in the UK and able to go to Six Nations matches or the autumn internationals in Cardiff. His introduction to rugby was much smoother than his older brother’s. He loved match day from the off and has been at many games over the years, free of incident.

I should say, mostly free of incident.

I have a picture on my laptop of Tom, proudly wearing his welsh rugby top and scarf tucking into a huge ice cream sundae in a Cardiff restaurant before what would have been one of his first games. I took the picture moments before some wild hand gesture (he’s always been a little accident prone) sent my equally huge glass of wine off the table and all over me. I sat through the game slightly damp and reeking of booze. An interesting variation, I think you’d agree, on the current ‘man throws beer/vomit over small boy’ narrative.

As a family we now have a vault full of such happy memories spent in or around the Millennium/Principality Stadium. I too look forward to being back there to drink beer and make noise without, hopefully, upsetting anyone. In the meantime, I’ll be here in Doha for the football World Cup next year and I’m already intrigued by what I perceive as a potential clash of cultures - the traditional ‘European’ booze based enthusiasm for the beautiful game versus the no less enthusiastic but bone ‘dry as the desert’ Gulf version.

And there’s also rugby to watch here. Tom plays for Doha RFC and has done so since we arrived in 2016. It’s not an understatement to say that joining the club, playing rugby, and watching the Six Nations and autumn internationals in the club’s bar, surrounded by expat Scots, English and Irish as well as Kiwis, Australians and South Africans, was one of the main ways we settled into our new life in Qatar.